The cake is a lie.
I wish we were on talking terms. Then there would be no need for this awkward tango anymore; our toes are now bent from the sheer weight of our lies, our heels red and sore from the jerky starts and stops we devised.
There is a song for every occasion imaginable, and I remember them all dearly. The unassuming fourth track I raised my heavenly glass to, simply because it was at that laser-light live setting that I first fell in love with you; the brilliant closer I hold as a product of quiet acoustic wonder, set adrift on precious waters as still as a silent killer calling on me with a gentle whisper; the second offspring I lit twenty-nine coloured candles for, to have it lead my way back to those streets I love forever more.
And after that, I could have a conversation with an uninnocent crayfish or do a cassette exchange with a passing swan, and it would not even matter.
Because nobody else has to know just how much we have gone through to get here. Nobody else, but us.
Does it trouble your mind
the way you trouble mine?